Happy

As personal as my writing on this blog tends to be, I typically maintain a creative distance between myself and whatever morose subject I’m covering. This is not a diary (for the most part), but rather an expression of thoughts and connections branching from my personal experiences. Much of the content here is, well, negative: Girl With a Tale has been a way for me to navigate painful emotions and cope with traumatic events.

Not my original intention, of course. At first, I wanted to simply host the scraps I’d normally delete somewhere so I could go back to them at my leisure. With the blog, I didn’t need to worry about losing ideas to computers I had to leave behind or backing up musings that had potential to grow. My intentions led to achieving my writing goals. Ideas started here gained momentum and shape elsewhere, becoming poems and prose that I shopped around, including a short story on having my heart broken and an abortion in the same month. In all the despair I host here, I’ve created things, sad as some of them are, that I hope ultimately resonate with others.

I want to change gears with my writing, at least eventually. My tale isn’t grief. At least, that’s not the entire story. Life is not pain and suffering; as I wrote back in March, to live, you often need to let go. So here’s a start in creating something different in this space: I will to put my happiness in plain view, since I’ve often failed to explore my joy and progress.

The week I turned 30, I found out news regarding my job that I still can’t share, but there’s a huge opportunity potentially coming my way that will change my life. I also saw Javier, my ex, as we crossed paths at Exchange Place that same day. It was fitting to see the man that broke my heart and cheated on me within hours of finding out the good news. Javier, who ceased to respond to any of my messages begging for clarity or answers, looked the same as he always did – beard and sunglasses masking the width of his large face, a brown trucker hat, the kind with mesh sides, covering his thinning black hair, brown and green clothing hiding a paunch while simultaneously putting in plain view his inability to disconnect himself from the “military man” identity he held onto post-discharge.

He was someone I had decided to attribute my previous successes to: I regained control of many coping mechanisms I abused while we were dating, and made significant progress both with my career and fitness. But he wasn’t there for me, as supportive as I had thought he was. Yeah, I could text him about hitting a new PR at the gym, but I saw him once a week, and very rarely on the weekends. Looking back, I realize how silly I was to think I was doing well specifically because of a man who treated me like I was last on his list of priorities. Work, family, friends, the doctor that lives in Neptune (impressive find, as he doesn’t have a car), the girls in Brooklyn he crashes with instead of going home, and then finally Amber, the girlfriend. Or a girlfriend. I honestly don’t know. Because once confronted, he refused to say.

Seeing him left me with a variety of feelings to sort through. I primarily felt empowered, though, since I stood my ground as he walked past me, smiling widely and waving. He offered an awkward pause as he decided upon which action to take, until finally weakly waving in return. The moment didn’t send me into a negative spiral. Instead, I smiled on my way home to Harrison, probably looking like an idiot to others on the PATH when I audibly laughed to myself in joy. I’m strong, I thought. And for once, not just physically.

Later that week, on my birthday, he texted me. “You probably still hate my guts but I wanted to wish you a happy birthday regardless,” Javier wrote.

I responded, “I don’t hate you. Thank you.”

A conversation began from this, where he suggested we meet up so I could get the closure I had wanted months ago. Initially I agreed, but the day after, I wrote back to him letting him know that I had made peace with the fact that I never received the answers I wanted. That I didn’t think I’d get anything out of seeing him one last time except for an unnecessary helping of grief.

“I know that it’s hard to be a decent person when you’ve been through a lot in your life,” I wrote. “And you have. I get you, and that’s probably the reason I can never hate you. I loved you and I still care about you, but unless you wanted to make a real attempt to be friends (which means being honest and also treating me like one) – don’t respond. This chapter is otherwise closed. Good luck in your life.”

He hasn’t responded. I wish things had ended at Exchange Place with me grinning all the way home, prideful and confident. The brief back and forth didn’t result in me coming undone, but it reminded me of how hard it is to set boundaries with others -and especially men. I agreed to meet him at a time and date of his choosing initially, instead of demanding convenience for myself. And it was hard to turn him down, as I desperately still want to see him.

I’m not manically happy to have told him I’ve made peace without him providing closure – it’s not like the triumph I felt when he had to respond to me at Exchange Place, giving me a briefly lived power over his emotional and physical response to me. But still, it’s a quiet joy. It’s progress. If I don’t want to repeat my mistakes, then it’s time to not allow men to use me as a means to an end – whatever that end is. Love is not one-sided sacrifice. And as trite as it is to say, love does start with me – specifically with respecting myself and my needs.

Javier had two months to tell me the truth or to give me the closure I wanted. Instead he spent that weekend with another woman, at his home that I was not allowed to see. (How absurd, I realize, to feel the way I do about someone that made me sit in a ShopRite parking lot by the apartment he shared with his mother – for forty minutes – instead of letting me inside.)

I owe him nothing, whereas I owe myself the world. I’ve already spent so much of my life being a victim. I was little better off than an abused dog, cowering and afraid and unable to enjoy the act of living. But going into thirty, I can finally say that I’m happy. Not because of a man. Not because of another person’s intervention. I’m happy because I worked for it.

Two years ago I was living out of my car, having given up everything to escape an abusive relationship that led me down the path of an eating disorder. A year after, I was unemployed while dealing with a rock bottom I had to some degree brought upon myself. Last spring, I seriously considered that I wouldn’t recover from how severely I had regressed in my ability to cope, resorting heavily to binging, purging, and drinking to deal with sexual assault and unwanted pregnancy. The gym became a distant thought, and despite the weight I gained, I figured exercise no longer mattered: as far as I was concerned, the brief period of my life where I felt empowered after leaving Scott was a mistake, and that this was real.

Since my 29th birthday, however, I’ve been promoted twice at a job I love. When I think of Scott criticizing me for working as a veterinary technician or for not making enough to be suitable for marriage, I get to have a good laugh, my career putting me on track to make significantly more than a teacher. The gym is again a place of relaxation, focus, and progress for me. (In fact, I just hit a one rep max for 165lbs on bench press, among other recent feats.) I drink socially without embarrassing myself or losing my keys, purse. Most impressively, my eating disorder is quiet. To say it’s “gone” would be perhaps too optimistic, but I haven’t binged or purged for months, and I’m not terrified to be flexible in how I eat. I let myself enjoy food the way I used to envy in others. I never imagined I’d get here, to be honest.

I made the decision to work on myself, which wasn’t natural to me, or the least bit easy. When Javier and I were dating, I told him that I know how to survive, but to actually live is beyond my ability. Without conflict, it’s difficult to know what to do with myself. He understood me. “It’s about who gets you the most,” he once said. And I still agree, which is why it will be hard to let go of the love I had for him. People who will hurt me always get me the most, because what we so often have in common is pain. Unfortunately, many don’t turn their lives around. They don’t stop hurting themselves or others. Their interest in survival means that they will never know what it is to live. And if I don’t want to be the girl that repeats the same dating patterns over and over again, the next thing to add onto my list of successes is, “I stopped falling in love with the suffering of men who don’t want to change.”

For now, though, I’ll enjoy my progress. I will focus on the good I made out of the difficulties I’ve experienced throughout my life. Every day that I live with pride in my accomplishments is a testament to my strength and resilience. “It’s about who gets you the most,” Javier said. Well, I realized if that person is me, that’s just fine.

Grief, Love

My grief is not for the men I lost who never wanted me, but for the time and effort I wasted on blaming myself.

For a time, I was angry that I fell in love and allowed myself to be vulnerable. But more recently, I’ve come to understand that this quality is what separates me from those damaged, emotionally unavailable men I’ve chased. They claim they are a certain way and can’t help it; their interior lives are stagnant as they cannot even comprehend that they can and should change. Unlike them, I have changed. Despite everything I’ve gone through, or perhaps because of it, I’ve learned how to love productively and completely. My flaw is not my capacity to care for another person – it’s that I relate to and empathize with people who grew up feeling as I did, and hold onto them for as long as they want me in their lives. Going forward, my goal is to not bury my wants and needs in favor of privileging what others ask of me.

Javier cheated on me. Worse than that, when I confronted him, he ghosted me. We had been dating for nearly six months, and I defended him against the naysayers that told me our relationship sounded like it didn’t matter to him or that I should be concerned I was his woman on the side. Yes, we averaged seeing each other four times a month, but I sincerely believed he was both busy and someone who valued spending his little free time by himself. I only became nosy when he didn’t want me to post a picture of us together on social media. At that point, with very little digging, it became apparent he was seeing at least one other person – on weekends he told me he was working. After that, many other elements of our relationship made more sense and supported the fact that he was cheating: I wasn’t allowed to call him, he was supposedly not on Facebook, I could’t come to his apartment, and I was always being told I’d eventually meet his friends and family without any definitive plans to do so.

It’s unlikely I’ll ever get closure, and a part of my mind will always wonder if I overreacted to this information. Maybe I’m crazy, you know. Perhaps there’s an explanation. There was a moment or two where I believed it was my fault he vanished, as I reacted strongly to finding out that he was with another woman. A bigger part of me knows that this is all immaterial. After nearly six months, the fact that I felt compelled to ask him if I could post a picture of us together is insane. Whatever my reaction to the realization I was not the only woman in the picture, spending half the year together warrants an explanation – even if I will never get one.

While I may never know the actual timeline or specific details of his cheating, my experience with Javier gave me an opportunity to see where I’ve gone wrong with the men I pursue. This time around, I’m determined to be gentler with myself about my relationship falling apart: blaming myself in the past did not help me create healthier patterns, after all.

The takeaway isn’t to shutdown or be cautious to love another. I will continue to give future lovers the benefit of the doubt. I’ll care about and fall for someone without letting the baggage of my past get in the way of being vulnerable enough to do so. The lesson here is to cut my losses, though, when it’s clear that the person I’m investing in is emotionally unavailable. Going forward, I’m not going to let my strange White Knight complex convince me that I’ll save a broken man. It’s patience that’s hurt me, not love, so I will not wait for the things I want out of a relationship.

I’m proud of myself, especially given how rough things have been for me up until recently. When I initially discovered my relationship with Javier was a farce, I was afraid my progress would be undone and that the rest of my life would surely collapse around him. But even with this bump in the road, I’m doing better with my eating disorder than I have since being raped almost a year a half ago. Powerlifting, which I had contemplated abandoning after the rape, is once again the cornerstone of my life, and I’m on the path to competing. I’m at a point in my current career where being fired by my last employer is now a good thing, as I’m earning considerably more in a company that actually values my work ethic.

The only person I can control is me. The parts of my life that are good exist through my ability and determination. And it took time and healing to get to that point, too – to have the confidence to exist in corporate settings, to strike out on my own and gain the level of financial independence I now have. As heartbroken as I still am, I know that it’s likely I must also heal in this area. So I will work on my confidence, and I will stop feeling bad for broken men who justify hurting the people who love them with “I’ve always been this way.”

That’s their choice. I will make a different one, always.

Happy Anniversary

“I miss who you were,” Scott says. We are laying in bed together but as far apart as the mattress allows. He is turned to face the wall. I am looking at the back of his head, contemplating the force needed to bash in his skull. I don’t want to be touched, he had told me minutes earlier. I’m just really sensitive after I cum.

He never bothered to get to know her, whatever version of me he claims to miss. In a truth he can’t admit to himself, it’s just that he doesn’t like the girlfriend he’s received post-treatment. We got along best when I spent more of my time bent over one of our two toilets, letting my anxiety and depression explode from my mouth and pour into cool porcelain bowls. On the occasions that he’d confront me about my behavior, he’d tell me that I was ruining the house. (When I continue to reach down into my throat years later, I think about the damage I’m doing to the pipes, not the potential eruption of my esophagus or my courtship of sudden death.)

“I thought going to Renfrew would cure you,” he says. Scott doesn’t bother to turn towards me. “You’re still at it, though. And you’re so angry with me all the time.”

I’m only clawing at the inside of my mouth when time stretches my willpower so thin that I can see through it like glass. But yes, I am angry. Now that I don’t puke more often than I shit, I feel my emotions.

“I’m sorry,” I say.  It’s what he wants to hear.

 

“Your arms look fat,” Scott says, a few months before I commit myself to a facility for women with eating disorders. I’ve made the appointment already: between my hair falling out and the acid burns around my perpetually chapped lips, he sees how poorly I’m doing. Still, he’s grimacing, absorbed in his observation. The object of his distaste is a photo: I stand with a group of women in front of a limousine, dressed for a leopard themed bachelorette party.

 

Before and after Renfrew, I try to fall asleep, tired from working, school, or most often a combination of the both. At certain points I’m a nursing student and tutor, a vet tech also putting hours in at a pet store while taking a class or two in between, leading my clinical rotations on the days I’m not working 10 hour shifts at an animal hospital. I probably nodded off on the chair in his parents’ basement or slipped to the floor from the narrow couch in our living room. (He was most likely playing FIFA. He most likely ignored me.) Whenever I get to that point, I make the decision to get more comfortable, to move myself to a more appropriate surface.

In my bed or ours, he’ll wake me up an hour later (as soon as I’ve settled into sleep), and he’ll stroke himself while he talks. I wonder why I’m even here if I’m not thinking about his strange desires. I want you to fuck people for money, he says. Just be a complete whore. I’m not shocked, really, not anymore, but it’s still perplexing. There are times when I play along, and others when I’m silent. On a couple occasions, I cry. But he always gets what he comes for, no matter my reaction, leaving or turning away from me before I can ask for comfort, care.

My needs don’t really matter to Scott. I suppose they don’t matter enough to me, either.

Dating

“I lead with it,” I said to Brian, my latest therapist. He was older than me, but I still thought of him as young: he only had a few inches on me, sometimes wore a bow tie, and met his wife on JDate. “When we get together the first time, I tell them I’m in recovery from Bulimia Nervosa. I’ll mention that I go to therapy or that I’m on medication for clinical depression.”

I had come to know Brian well enough to discover some of his tells. Whenever I said something that he found troubling, he’d purse his lips, creating what I came to call the “puffy duck face.” Usually I distracted myself from the difficulty of discussing my eating disorder frankly by focusing on his expression. This time, however, I wasn’t exactly thrilled to see him respond this way to my outlook on dating.

“You have to open up over time,” Brian said. “When you unload like that, you know what the guy is thinking? He’s wondering what else is waiting for him, should you continue to spend time together. I would recommend taking it slow…”

“I don’t care,” I interrupted. “Well, I don’t know. It’s not that, exactly. I just figure that this gives anyone who may get close to me a heads up. Like, they get the choice immediately to deal with my shit, or they can decide it’s a lot and leave. I don’t want to get rejected down the line for being honest.”

“They may leave you anyway,” Brian said.

“I know.” As much as I didn’t want to admit it, most of the people I dated – casually or with more serious interest – would be happy to obtain the perks of a mutually beneficial arrangement, but also categorize me as unfit for a genuine relationship.

I was the fun girl. And I’d be kept at a distance, at least until they found someone more suitable, so that I could remain just that. Any closer, and they would have to see that I was imperfect too – just in less socially acceptable ways than them.

Abuse and Selfishness

Mid-March, freelance writer Richard Greenhill contacted me to discuss a Reddit post I made about my then boyfriend, as he was interested in writing about cuckolding and hotwife fetishes.

If you’ve read my blog, you already know from some of my earlier pieces that my ex of three and a half years was obsessed with sexual fantasies involving me and other men. (You can read Your Bulimic Girlfriend, Wedding Bells, and/or The Bulimic and the Sex Addict if you want more insight.) While having particular kinks is not bad by any means, my ex took things to an entirely new level, where our sexual activities included (almost from day one) demands for me to change my body (get implants, plastic surgery, dye my hair, get my nails done, do my makeup so it’s “sluttier,” and all sorts of things), as well as his articulation of strange and dangerous scenarios at gas stations, glory holes, and more. I didn’t enjoy this; we fought often about his inability to talk about any other subject. Sometimes I had the nerve to bring up how sexually unsatisfied I was, my needs and wants elided by his all-consuming fetish, only to suffer through the same one-sided sex talk later that day. To make matters worse, he never respected my boundaries, or when I told him “no.” He would continuously beg me to help him get off, whining and needling me, and not allow me to go to sleep until he got his way. Whenever I dug my heels in (which wasn’t often), he’d become increasingly manipulative. He would tell me that rejecting him made him feel unloved, especially because I was so terrible at showing my affection in any arena outside of sex.

Looking back at my Reddit post, where I asked for relationship advice and reassurance that his behavior was not OK, I cringe. Writing the above, and knowing that I endured his sex addiction despite the pain it caused me, makes me feel like a fool. My post to Reddit wasn’t even completely honest: I wrote that our relationship was fine aside from our sex life. Well, it wasn’t, even aside from the relentless sexual coercion I faced. I developed Bulimia during the course of dating him. I was financially dependent on him, having gone back to school at his urging, and was reminded every day that I should feel lucky and grateful to have his (or his family’s) roof over my head. Prior to leaving for residential treatment at Renfrew for my eating disorder, he had cheated on me. He was still talking to the girl when I came back, hiding that he had a live-in girlfriend.

Even during my time at Renfrew, when I was supposed to be healing and focusing on myself, he’d ask anytime I called him if I told my therapist about “how we are sexually.” I didn’t even tell my truth when in the best setting to do so, as I subconsciously knew that my treatment team would likely intervene. (My therapist was already concerned I wouldn’t do well in recovery, given that he was such poor support, and that was without her knowing the more gruesome details of our relationship.) Worst of all, when I left for residential treatment, we had promised we’d both work on our compulsive behaviors – and while I took the steps I needed, he spent my two weeks in a psychiatric unit for damaged girls and women watching cuckold porn and talking to the chick he cheated on me with.

These are not details I discussed with Richard. His Vice article, published earlier this month, focuses on when the cuckold and hotwife fetish puts strain on a relationship, and uses my story as one example (among a few others). After writing about my experience at Richard’s request, the part of our conversation he featured in his article is the conclusion I came to as I tried to answer some of his questions. Cuckold/hotwife fantasies differ from other fetishes because they involve the objectification of both your partner and the relationship between you. (Striped socks have nothing on this kink.) In understanding this, I also understand how many red flags I ignored as I fell deeper and deeper into a shared life with a sex addict. I could rattle off the list, but they all suggest the same thing: he didn’t see me as a person, and he was selfish.

While the men featured in Richard’s article were able to identify wrongness in their obsession (even if they couldn’t overcome it), experiencing – much like my ex – an inability to be intimate with their significant other, my boyfriend of three and a half years was unable to acknowledge the damage he inflicted. Not just on me, but also on himself. As part of his unwillingness to handle his sex addiction, he lied and cheated and manipulated. When we ultimately broke up, the story he told didn’t include three and a half years of sexual harassment. He didn’t tell people how he made me feel insecure by constantly demanding that I change my body, how I dress, and even how I do my makeup. No, the story he told was that I was a crazy girl with an eating disorder. Because disclosing my medical history (even the “crazy” part) to everyone we knew mutually (and those he met afterward) was more OK, and more socially acceptable, than acknowledging his role in destroying my sense of self.

Don’t mistake writing about my ex as dwelling on a situation I’ve left behind. While it’s only been a little over a year, I normally don’t think of him outside of trying to create a poem or some prose based on a period of my life that was emotionally rich. There are triggers, of course: I’m angered whenever I feel like someone is controlling what I can say or do, since my relationship also involved trying to control how I dressed and behaved outside of sex. There are also areas in which I’ve grown as part of my experience, as much as I hate to admit it. I’m not quiet when I feel wronged, and I’m learning how to express myself. I stand by my opinions. And I am likable this way, even if my ex made me fear that I’d have even less of a life simply by being myself, that I needed to be quiet and demure to be both loved and liked.

As much as I attempt to move on, however, I’m in recovery. It means that even if I’ve put the past behind me, I’m still dealing with how a sexually abusive relationship affected this present version of myself. Due to my abusive father, I went into my adulthood with an inability to distinguish healthy relationships from unhealthy ones. And then I stumbled into my ex after a relatively OK marriage (where the man I was involved with made me feel lovable and worthy of love for the first time in my life, even if things ultimately ended between us). My ex undid a lot of the progress I made, and he undid it gradually. So when I decided to leave him, I was somewhat lost.

Although I’ve attempted to rebuild my life instead of allowing it to fall apart, I’ve made mistakes. I thought being upfront about my past would protect me to some degree. I wanted to know what it was like to have fun, to live. I also didn’t want to get hurt. So I was fun, and I tried to weigh the risk of being vulnerable and being hurt against the reward of finding love. In the trysts I fell into since, I learned that being hurt and finding that you’re still capable of being vulnerable enough to offer your heart to another are not mutually exclusive. But it’s also scary, sometimes, to see how little progress I’ve made in identifying my own boundaries. I only see evidence that they looked at the partial picture and intentionally avoided the strokes that didn’t fit their fantasy after the fact. I’ve let the reasons they used to justify their bouts of selfishness be the seeds of doubt. I’m not good enough.

At this point, nearly fourteen months after leaving a relationship I thought would culminate in marriage, I want my core belief to be that these people were not good enough for me, leave alone worth the time I invested in them. This is the benchmark of recovery, the thought that will let me say, I’m an abuse survivor, and not an active victim.

LCD Soundsystem

Vibrations travel through the heels of my boots, intermittently and inconsistently interrupted as I take a few strides. I pause more often than I’d like to find a direction that will bring me back to Mike. The venue is crowded; what little air exists between and above the bodies of LCD Soundsystem’s fans is cloying. Whenever I can’t uncover an opening between the throngs of people, I stop, pivoting to change course. Part of me considers simply abandoning my date and enjoying the show on my own: I’m not sure he’s worth the trouble of discovery. But he drove us to Brooklyn, and I don’t trust that I’ll find my way back to Harrison on my own.

I commend myself for recognizing my own discomfort, for not pushing away the bits and pieces that tell me to enjoy myself but to not let this man into the interior of my life. I count two accusations of lusting after other people that I’m not sure are jokes, and one awkward conversation about our feelings on political correctness. (He’s not a fan, he told me. Most white men aren’t, I’ve found, and I’m not surprised.) Still, I can be polite and enjoy a good show. So however much it tests my patience, I continue through the venue, eventually finding the balcony’s stairway.

The way he looks at me doesn’t hurt. I may not think he’s handsome, but I could tell from the moment we hugged how pleased he was to see me.

If I were to be honest with myself, I’d admit that it’s intoxicating to know that I’m desired, even when I’m certain that I don’t want them. My high is a positive correlation, in terms of the lust in their eyes. But it’s the most innocent of my addictions, and I’ve worked on myself enough for the year.

So rather than dwelling on my inadequacies, I decide to enjoy this version of myself. This is me in my element, I think, finally reaching the upstairs balcony. A year ago, I wasn’t in a position to brave the crowd brought in by Brooklyn Steel, locked away with girls and women terrified by the relationship between their death wish and the calories they (had not) consumed. And on this exact date, Scott visited me with his mother. Today, on December 26th, I remember the impatience that infested his bones like termites, his leg jumping as he sat on my therapist’s couch. I can even remember Nicole’s assessment of my then boyfriend after our session, nearly verbatim: As hesitant as I am to tell you this, I have my own fears that you’ll go home and not succeed. Both are memories I recall more clearly than his appearance. In a way, I’m pleased.

I break from my brief reverie when I bump into another concert-goer and hear their “fuck” in response. After I dart to the left, wanting to avoid the assignation of “culprit” regarding his spilled drink, I reach what I had previously identified as the best spot on the balcony. I now see that I’ve caught Mike’s eye, my date standing a few feet away, and a flash of white teeth breaks up his doughy head. His face suddenly reminds me of a dog that has dropped a toy at my feet, the grin akin to the lopsided expression of most canines: even without words, he is able to demonstrate that he’s absurdly and ridiculously pleased with himself.

At the time, I don’t realize that this is the wrong comparison.

 

Trauma is not finite, I learn. This too shall pass, my ex-husband used to tell me. So I wait under Mike’s body, feeling like something of a corpse as his stomach flops against mine.

When “no” ceased to work, I started to distract myself with a variety of thoughts, most of them revolving around dating. The sound his body makes brings me to the absurdity of my own insecurities when meeting men. In addition to sounding like a wet sponge hitting the wall, he’s overplayed his alleged commitment to the gym, his body more Rubenesque than my own. Like many men with thinning head hair, it’s as if the strands that once belonged to his skull migrated downward and then somehow multiplied exponentially.

Scott taught me that it’s easier to give up and give in when a man will not accept your protests. Silence will be easiest, and it ensures he’ll leave. But in addition to feeling dirty, I also feel stupid. Where’s your roommate? he had asked me early on, before we had even reached the venue. When he brought me home and I was ready to leave his car, he asked to use my bathroom. I allowed him into the apartment.

I didn’t think this is how my night would end, sweating under his weight, waiting for his grunting to stop.

And even then. Even then. He finishes and rolls off of me, prone on my bed, likely to leave a large sweat stain on the spot I usually sleep. He laughs. “Girls are so confusing,” he says. “They say no, but they really want it.”

I want to scream. I don’t.

Snapshot of a Date

“It must feel like a part of your identity,” I say.

He sips his Diet Coke before answering. “Yeah, yeah. It does,” he says.

Labels are meant to communicate certain experiences. My date is many things, and Sober is one. There’s no similar expression for abstaining from disordered eating, but I relate to what it means to live in an addiction, to count the days you’ve spent on the other side of it. I even have a phrase that I hold on to, that defines more of my life than I ever imagined. The label is “In Recovery,” and the experience it communicates is less rigid than sobriety.

Sober. In Recovery. While I think of the strength it took simply to recognize a need for less maladaptive coping mechanisms when I hear or read these words, I know others sometimes see a different meaning. I’ve been broken in the eyes of a loved one, pitiable from the perspective of friends. Even those who call me strong would be wary to include me in their life: recovery is ultimately the suppression of chaos, and the empathy they demonstrate acknowledges a struggle for control rather than success.

I wonder if this means we’re meant to be alone. Or perhaps together with people like ourselves. Even though I don’t find my date attractive, when he tells me that he drank too much in the past, I immediately feel a strange sense of kinship, a desire to get closer. You’ll understand me, won’t you? I want to ask Bobby (such a child-like name, and not the one that comes to mind when I imagine an alcoholic) for insight – he’s a lot further along than I am in controlling the chaos, and probably more successful too – but I need to stop leading with the reasons people should run.

So I don’t tell him I am a diagnosed case of Bulimia Nervosa. I just listen, overwhelmed by the sadness I now feel. I want to reject the realization that creeps up on me, but I can’t. He is me, in a way. I’m sitting on the other side of a conversation with myself, and the discomfort that I feel is a knot of emotions and thoughts.

The conclusion is simple, though. That’s the only thing that doesn’t come as a surprise tonight. It’s just clear to me, all of a sudden, this truth I always knew. Even I have a right to find happiness, but I’ll never deserve another’s love.

Recovery?

I’m in recovery. What a nebulous sentence. I’m not even sure what it means when I admit to people that I’m bulimic, but am “in recovery.” Am I working on the behaviors? Am I successful when I don’t purge, or when I can sit uncomfortably after compulsively over stuffing myself? Am I still symptomatic if I’m binging? And what about these thoughts I have, related to my body and food and self-worth? When I can say, I’m recovered, does that mean I can’t feel guilty about missing the gym because I’m worn down?

The closer I come to having a life that allows me to live, the more I focus on the details, the semantics.

I realized yesterday that I don’t want to be bulimic anymore. I don’t want this disorder to be such a large part of my identity. But even as I trace its origins, even as I begin to understand how this happened, I’m not any nearer to defining what life without bulimia is like. Worst of all, this disease is like an invasive species; it doesn’t belong here.

I’m surprised that it happened so recently. Scott’s mom was candid about her feelings, perhaps because I was being open about my own. Not that I had much choice. Scott had told his family – without my consent – that I was bulimic. She was dismayed to hear that the disorder began in the midst of living with her. The answer she wanted was different – maybe some story about how I spent my time bent over a toilet in college and recently relapsed. She didn’t want to consider that the disorder began as part of my relationship with her son and his family.

In fact, when I told her I was going to residential treatment at Renfrew, she repeatedly stated, “I hope they don’t tell you we’re not good for you.” I was about to uproot my life the day after finishing my fall semester of nursing school to spend an indefinite amount of time at a residential facility in Philadelphia, and her main concern was that the therapist(s) would tell me to get the hell out of Dodge.

My therapist, of course, did question my ability to be successful with a partner like Scott. I never told her about Scott’s sexual abuse. I didn’t mention that his mother was an alcoholic, and that I spent almost a year being told by him and his twin brother that I was just imagining it or being dramatic. She didn’t know the details of Scott’s cheating, or the way he’d compare compulsive acts of sexual abuse to my bulimia. I never told my therapist that Scott explicitly said he didn’t forgive me for being emotionally unstable when my bulimia was at its worst (“you were still you then,” he told me more than once when I came back from Renfrew, even as he continued to cause me emotional and physical harm in bed), and considered the behavior of a genuinely ill person comparable to his cheating, his lying, his abuse.

I think my therapist simply saw what I see now: I’m a resilient person, but resilience is a finite resource. And I was wasting that resource on Scott, on his family, on people who never asked me what I wanted or if I was happy. I wasted my resilience on trying to live with people who slept with their secrets. Who didn’t, or couldn’t, communicate honestly, but acted passive-aggressively, displayed random bouts of anger, manipulated one another. I purchased their story of this being normal, and judged myself instead of identifying their problems sooner.

I wouldn’t have developed bulimia if I had never met Scott. I’m so certain of this that I want to laugh hysterically until I cry; I want to embrace the absurdity of my situation. These thoughts also make me want a life without bulimia more than ever. I want to be able to know what it’s like to not fear a bathroom after a large meal. To not miss the gym because I spent the day before, or even morning of, purging. My life is worth more than the DSM diagnosis they brought into it.

I don’t know what being “in recovery” actually means. I never will. But I am in a state of regaining my resilience. I can recognize that I’m not a bad person for wanting a life defined by my desires and needs. For accepting that it’s not healthy to keep secrets, or to let anxieties create a momentum that’s chaotic and harsh.

I’m happy to wake up. I haven’t been able to say that in years.

The Bulimic and the Sex Addict

“I’m afraid, knowing you’re going home,” Natalie said, her crossed legs long enough that they made the shape of an X. “I don’t think you’re in an environment that supports your recovery. Your relationship — I can’t tell you what to do, but I’m disappointed. He didn’t visit you at Christmas. He didn’t come to the family session. The phone conference we did instead — he rescheduled us instead of telling the parent that there was a time conflict.”

And this one met Sean, too, Sammie thought, considering her therapist’s words. Prior to entering residential treatment for bulimia, she had seen another therapist for a year who had encouraged her to reconsider her tendency to settle with “nice,” specifically in the context of Sean. When Sammie had told him that her therapist wondered if she was getting what she needed out of their relationship, Sean seemed frustrated and only said that she had never met him. His “side” went unheard. He didn’t realize that therapists usually kept their opinions out of the question of whether or not a relationship is worthwhile – that was for the patient to decide, and both Natalie and her former therapist went as far as to suggest that leaving him would only be beneficial. With many caveats about how it was Sammie’s choice to stay or leave, of course.

Natalie had included Sean in a few of the therapy sessions. One “teleconference” that mostly consisted of telling him he had a bad connection, and two times in person, when she was admitted and during his Christmas break, the first and only time he came as a visitor. “I’m glad my mom is driving,” she remembered him saying on the phone, “I don’t want to put so many miles on my car going from New Jersey to Philly.” Natalie’s impression of Sean was that he was a teapot on the verge of boiling over. His obsessive need to talk, she told Sammie, made it difficult for him to listen. He was always thinking about what to say next, when it was far more important to bring his attention to what was being said. Sammie found it hard to disagree with the therapist’s assessment.

“What can I really do?” Sammie asked. “I quit my animal clinic job. Being in the nursing program – I couldn’t do that and work at the same time. I went to nursing school full time for him, because he wanted to be with someone like that, a nurse. At this point, I don’t have the savings I used to. I don’t have my job.”

“If you have to go into debt, then you go into debt,” Natalie said. “Your recovery is more valuable.”

 

Sammie wants to tell him to leave. This is the fifth time he’s fallen asleep on her couch, and the third that he’s refused to see her on a Saturday, when he would actually have a chance of staying awake. He’s nice and cute, Sammie thinks, running her chubby fingers through his hair. I think he likes me. But Sammie can’t be positive. No, they barely speak. He comes over, fucks her multiple times, and falls asleep on the couch. Sometimes he stays awake long enough to beg for a back rub.

Sean is never cruel or particularly rude, just a little unintentionally insensitive. Sammie’s working full time, 2nd shift most days, while also taking classes full time at the local community college. She wonders if he realizes the stress she’s under, or how little time she has to herself. He often texts her when they’re apart, but the messages are things about his day that never respond in kind to what she has to say. Or they’re requests for validation. What do you like about me? Sammie would say a lot of things: I like that you’re cute, when you’re goofy it really makes me smile, I love the way you touch me, you’re really talkative in bed (although he says some very strange things), and you’re so dedicated to your job. When she made the mistake to ask him the same question, he wrote, You relax me. She wanted to demand some kind of answer that related to her personality, not the benefit of having sex and sleeping on her couch. Of course, she didn’t follow through.

The worst bits are the ones Sammie tries to ignore, but they continue to creep up into her thoughts. He’s sexually impulsive. It makes her uncomfortable. Determining her own rights is hard, for some reason. Is she just being sex negative? Is she a prude? She wants someone who is kinky and interesting. Her last relationship was a snore, at least sexually. But she wasn’t expecting to hear about how she should get implants, or try to get money from guys who want to fuck her. Isn’t that prostitution? He wants me to be a prostitute? Was he serious? Did it just turn him on to say these things? She did ask, at one point, but he refused to provide a clear answer.

She’s desperate for someone to care about her. So she doesn’t push, and she doesn’t judge. She doesn’t demand he see her on Saturdays. When he doesn’t get to her apartment until after 9pm on Fridays, when she told him she was making them dinner, she doesn’t get angry. Not even when he tells her he’s not hungry at all, because he ate pizza with his family before coming over.

 

Tomorrow, Sammie would be going home. She wasn’t ready.

As soon as Sammie was admitted to residential, she wanted to leave. She didn’t feel like she belonged. Sure, she binged and purged multiple times a day. And yes, she wanted to kill herself because she was tired of living her life that way. But she wasn’t thin. In fact, she almost cried when she was weighed by the nurse practitioner, distraught that she was now technically overweight. A fat girl didn’t belong in treatment, especially when her bloodwork was just fine. True, she did pass out the second day she was there; a blood draw at 4am would do anyone in. And she was naturally orthostatic. The dizziness she experienced had nothing to do with her behaviors. Right?

Whatever the answers were, Sammie did improve by being in Residential. She connected with other girls, and was able to complete her meals without engaging in the symptoms of her eating disorder. She hadn’t gone a week without binging and purging since her bulimia first began. Yes, the setting made it difficult to puke into a toilet after a meal, but it was a huge accomplishment nonetheless.

Moreover, after Sean had cheated on her, she needed space and time to regroup and validate herself, to reestablish her worth as a person again. He had told her that she hadn’t met his emotional needs for a long time. During their in-person session with Natalie, he had referred to the fact that he had cheated in vague terms, citing feeling neglected as the cause. Natalie explained that Sammie was an empty cup; she had nothing to pour into his glass. If she couldn’t take care of herself, expecting her to take care of him crazy. That was a lesson quickly unlearned, of course. Even while still in res, their conversations would include how she never said anything nice to him, that she was cold and not affectionate. Sammie wanted to scream at him. Instead, she usually just said, “what about the sex? What about taking care of the house? I do a lot. I do.”

He would answer, “I know. But I need more.”

He had nodded sagely during the session, but over the phone maintained that the cheating happened due to Sammie. He was dealing with so much. A bulimic girlfriend that acted like she hated him most of the time. Who wanted to kill herself. (And you ignored that, Sammie often thought and, at times, voiced.) As she became more comfortable in res, she stopped calling him all the time, taking to her books or conversations with other residents instead. She needed to use the time she had away from him to see herself through her own eyes. To not feel the weight of his expectations, his wants, his desires. To not feel like a failure.

So the news that her insurance was cutting her off before two complete weeks of treatment was upsetting. She was, in all honesty, afraid to go back to the life she had with Sean. In fact, she was already expecting to be disappointed tomorrow.

Initially, Sammie imagined that Sean would pick her up from Philadelphia before lunch, and that they would eat at a Panera or some other restaurant that met the criteria of her meal plan while driving home. Instead, because he didn’t want to put the miles on his car, he was having his mom and dad drive. They would all pick her up. Sammie had been with his family long enough to know that they would not stop for food, and that they’d have an assortment of snacks in the car to cover lunch. Her first meal outside of treatment would already be a failure.

Aside from that, Sammie also didn’t want his family’s continued involvement in her life. In her life together with Sean, sure. But when it came to her individual problems, she wanted Sean’s support. To feel like she could confide in him. (He already made it obvious she couldn’t, after telling all his friends she was going to treatment for bulimia, but she wanted to start over.) Instead, his family was being brought along for the ride – literally. She wanted Sean as a partner, not as their son. For him to love her, and take care of her without his parents’ help, and to drive as many miles as she needed him to in his own car.

Was that so unfair?

 

“It’s funny,” Sammie says. “I came here to talk about my family. How I grew up. Instead all I talk about is how unhappy I am right now. Not because of them, my parents. Because of Sean.”

Christine has a habit of tucking her blond hair behind her ear. She’s attractive in an unconventional way, Sammie notes, with her predictable habits and her widely set eyes. And she shops at Target. Sammie knows this, since she has some of the same sweaters, just in different colors. It makes her feel more comfortable, like her therapist is Any Woman.

“Right,” Christine says, after the silence extends beyond a certain point. I wonder if she counts and starts talking when she hits ten? “You’re not happy in the situation you’re in.”

“No,” Sammie says. “It’s hard. I feel like an outsider. I’m living this life where I’m struggling to keep up with everyone else. I’m in school. I’m working. It doesn’t seem like enough for anyone. Not for Sean, not for his family. I’m not a teacher. I don’t have a career yet. I’m doing well for me, but no one looks at my life within the context of how I grew up. The accomplishment of not having a kid at my age. Or at 18, for that matter. Of graduating high school. Of having a college degree. I still feel like I’m not good enough.”

“Is it possible that you’re projecting these feelings onto others?”

Sammie pauses, then shrugs. “Maybe. Not with Sean, though. Sean… that’s so difficult. He’s difficult. I got my job with the vet at the same time – the same time I was accepted into the nursing program as a second degree student. And I told him, ‘You know, if things work out with the vet, I think I might not go into the program. I’ll see how things go from March until September.’ And he said, ‘That’s not a career.’ He didn’t feel comfortable moving out with me from his parents’, even if I was working as a vet assistant. He has a certain standard.”

“Yes, we’ve talked a lot about Sean. I agree that you’re not projecting in his case. But let me clarify. He doesn’t want to move out with you, even if you’re contributing?”

“He doesn’t want to move out until I’m an RN.”

“Is his mom still drinking at night? Have you let him know that it’s affecting you negatively?”

“Yes. To both. She’s been so bad lately, drinking and making a ruckus almost every single day. I can’t focus on my work. And I just feel scared to go home. He says he’ll work on talking to his mom, but I’m so upset and angry lately, and he’s not doing anything.”

“Sammie,” she says, her usually passive face taking on a frown and furrowed brows. “I don’t say this lightly. It’s not within my rights to tell you to leave anyone. But I have a difficult time seeing Sean as a positive figure in your life. I’m not telling you what to do, but I strongly recommend that you consider taking a break from school, working, and getting out of there.”

Suddenly, Sammie’s at a loss for words. I’m part-time at my job now. I don’t know. I love Sean. I do.

“I know you care for him, but I’m worried about you. You’re so resilient, but right now you can’t be where you need emotionally while you’re in the middle of his mother’s alcoholism. And you’ve told me before that you’re not receiving the support you need. From what you tell me, I can only validate those feelings. He sounds very much like he can’t see things from your perspective. A good partner accepts you for you, and tries to understand what you want. What if he lost his job? What if you had a career as an RN, but had to take time off because of an injury? That happens frequently to nurses.”

“I know,” Sammie says. “I’ve tried to explain that to him. But I don’t know.”

“He doesn’t see you two as being in a partnership,” Christine says. “I haven’t met him, obviously, but I doubt my opinion would change if I did. It sounds like he wants to always be in a situation where someone else is taking care of him. He’s not interested in taking the lead on that. Moving out is not a huge request, not at your age, and not when you’re exposed to an alcoholic in your current setting. But that means taking care of you as much as you take care of him.”

“And he doesn’t want to,” Sammie says. “I think I’ve always known that, in a way.”

 

Is this really a surprise, Sammie thought, looking towards Sean. He sat on the couch opposite from her, slumped in his usual position. “I thought you were going there to get better,” he said.

“I was getting better. I told you that I wasn’t ready to come home,” she responded, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. She was only trying to be honest, that she had trouble eating pizza with his family. That sitting with the cheese and dough in her stomach made her feel a flood of emotion: she was guilty, anxious, and wanted to bend over the toilet and puke. “Please, you’re not supposed to be so critical of me. Read about this. Come on. I gave you the pamphlet they sent home with me.”

Sean’s thin lips bent into a frown. She expected them to form the words “sorry, I will,” but that expectation was apparently too much. Why won’t he read about bulimia? Or about how to support a partner with an eating disorder? Why can’t I come to him when I’m struggling?

She gave him what she thought he wanted over the course of their relationship. A crazy sex life, completely dictated by what he wanted from her. She accepted his family, as much as she wanted her space. The house they lived in was his mother’s doing – she held the mortgage and enabled him to afford the property by providing a ridiculously low interest rate. Sammie wanted a partnership. To move out together into a shitty apartment, and buy a house when they could do so together. Instead he followed his mom’s wishes – to live a block away in the house that originally belonged to his sister.

Even fresh out of residential treatment, she was attending family pizza night, eating dinner with his mother (who was drinking, again) almost every night, going grocery shopping by herself, making meal plans alone. She was trying. Things could get better, right? Their relationship could become something great. Like it was before? No, that was awful too. It just didn’t involve Sammie stuffing herself to the point of needing to puke in a toilet.

Why can’t he meet me halfway? Well, Natalie and Christine both warned her of the same thing. He just didn’t want to.

 

Sammie is on the portable yellow phone with Sean, pacing near the nurse’s station, trying not to talk in front of other residents’ closed doors.

“Did you tell Natalie about the sex stuff?”

This is all he seems to care about lately. “No, Sean, I didn’t,” Sammie says. “I didn’t tell Natalie, just like I never told Christine.”

“Okay,” is all he says, leaving Sammie to count up the ways he’s hurt her sexually. The talks about changing her body – she wishes she could discuss them with someone, figure out whether or not that’s a part of the bulimia. She thinks about having sex with other men at his behest, after he’s begged for her to do so for years. How sometimes he loves it, and other times makes her feel so ashamed. How in either scenario, he’s obsessed with these fetishes – the cuckolding, the bimbofication of his girlfriend, the idea that he’s coming home to a slut. We’re so fucked up. We need to stop, he’d say, almost immediately after getting off, sometimes in reference to a recent hook-up, and sometimes in reference to his unique form of dirty talk. I’m going to take you to a glory hole, and you’re going to suck every guy’s cock there. Aren’t you, you whore? And you’re going to get fake tits, yeah. Next time we fuck you’re not going to complain about me wanting to make you a bimbo, right? You’re going to be a good little slut?

She thinks about being friendly with some of these men she’s slept with — making them genuine friends who she texted regularly after meeting them, and being told that he’s uncomfortable with that. I like the idea of you being a slut, not this. I don’t want you to see anyone consistently. I just don’t like it. How she’s given him so much, endured sex talk and activities she didn’t enjoy out of love, privileged his orgasm over her pleasure even after he’s brought her to tears with his continued requests to behave like a whore, or go to a glory hole, or change her appearance, or dress sluttier than she does.

The worst part is that she doesn’t even expect that he stop completely. She accepts his desires. She just wants him to change it up, acknowledge her own wants and needs, and provide some form of care afterward. For three years, he’s held her for no more than a minute before deciding that he’s too hot, too uncomfortable, to stand holding her anymore. That is, if he’s not in the mood to flagellate them both over his kinks. Or just tired. Then he rolls over to the far end of the bed, and promptly falls asleep.

So, disturbed by her thoughts, Sammie hangs up without a word. She resists the urge to throw the yellow phone down against the facility’s ugly carpeting. She’s going to do exactly what treatment doesn’t want her to do: she will avoid her feelings. Reading is her only strategy for that here – there are no cell phones and no Internet, and the television belongs to Dance Moms tonight.

Her distress must be visible, though. As she returns the phone to the nursing station, one of the counselors speaks to her.

“Sammie, right?”

She nods.

“How are you doing, Sammie?”

“Fine,” she says. “I’m fine.” She smiles broadly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“If you need anything, please find me. Okay, Sammie?”

She wants to say, Please tell me I’m going to be alright. Please help me.

Instead, she nods and turns her back to the counselor. I can’t let her see me cry.

The Bulimic Powerlifter – Part 1

I felt almost like a batter in the MLB. I imagined a player preparing to step up to the plate, performing a needless ritual that included the kicking of feet, wringing of hands, spitting, adjusting wrist wraps, and more, as if luck was brought on by movements unrelated to the current objective. At least I’m not as bad as Nomar, I thought, and I’m certainly not going to spit in the gym. I clasped my hands together briefly, took a deep breath, and then ducked under the bar, positioning a load of 210lbs across my pinched shoulder blades.

Up, off, take a step back. I found a spot on the wall for my eyes, and descended – hopefully to parallel – with the heaviest weight I had ever squatted.

Don’t pause don’t pause don’t pause, my mind screamed, remembering how often I failed by simply not going straight back up. The reminder worked: I pushed through my heels as if I were trying to move the ground itself, and managed to bring the weight back up. I stepped forward and racked the bar.

My feeling of triumph was soon overcome by the feeling of nausea. My peripheral vision went fuzzy and dark. I knew this sensation, as it had become more frequent during my lifting sessions. Fortunately, the squat rack was in the corner of the gym, and I was able to put myself against the wall and slide down into a sitting position. I bent my knees, attempting to get blood flowing back to my brain. I would’ve liked it if the feeling that I was about to faint came from lifting heavy weight, but the reality was that bulimia and training as a powerlifter weren’t especially compatible. It was a truth I often denied outside of the gym, the eating disorder telling me, Hey! You’re still making progress, right?

Sometimes, the thoughts were darker in nature: You want to die anyway, don’t you? Why care? Why try?

 

My passion for lifting weights was the culmination of many factors. Growing up extremely obese and uncomfortable with my body, lifting gave me the ability to transform myself into a healthier person. For a time, I thought it had even helped me escape my disordered eating patterns of the past, where I went through alternating periods of restriction and binge eating. Another benefit of my newfound hobby was the strength that came with training, both literally and figuratively. Exercise for the purpose of getting stronger was so much more motivational than endless cardio and watching the scale. In the figurative sense, it was a way of opening myself up, being vulnerable in a manner that contained more bravery than I thought I was capable of: I let myself be the fat girl in the weight room.

Most important of all, lifting represented a way for me to truly remove myself from my past. Not just the disordered eating I battled with, but the general baggage of my childhood too. For one, my mother and step-father didn’t care about health – the fact that I was obese and that my sisters were both overweight didn’t inspire them to make any dietary changes. Very rarely, my step-father “made” dinner, often ribs or hamburgers with no sides. It was much more common to see fast food on the table. We lived on a constant rotation of pizza, KFC, Chinese, Boston Market, Taco Bell, and some local wing joint. Our fridge contained no fruit or vegetables, or even fresh meat, and the cupboards were filled with boxes of macaroni and cheese and Hamburger Helper. Our freezer was stuffed to capacity with frozen chicken fingers and gallons of ice cream.

Mega Camera 1300
Me before high school.
Mega Camera 1300
Imagine being 13 and unable to walk up a flight of stairs.

Meanwhile, when I tried to talk to my mother about my weight, she would tell me to go outside and play more often. If I were more active, she said, I could eat whatever I wanted. It wasn’t her problem that I was so lazy.

Seeing my father was often worse, especially when I made him angry. I could still remember being in the bathroom of his apartment with him, his hand wrapped around my arm, shaking it so that my upper arm painfully jiggled. “Disgusting,” he had said, his face contorted in a fury I didn’t understand. “If you keep this up, only black men are going to want to fuck you.”

I was twelve years old.

My particular upbringing provided many reasons for me to hate myself. For a time, lifting weights made me forget that I spent most of my life thinking that my body was an object of contempt.

And then bulimia entered my life, pushing its way to the forefront of my day-to-day in an amazingly short period of time.

 

My struggle with bulimia started around the same time that I began training as a powerlifter. Previously, I only lifted dumbbells, but had made good progress aesthetically. It was time for me to move on to a gym with barbells, I realized at a certain point, because I wanted to be genuinely strong.

It was around this time that I began going to William Paterson for nursing, while also struggling with a living situation that was less than ideal for me. School work was hard to complete at home for a number of reasons, most of them related to living with Scott and his parents. My boyfriend didn’t have a good sense of when I needed time to do my work. His mother watched a child that was under one for most of the day, and then fed the entirety of her large family (including her adult children) at dinner time, meaning it was fairly boisterous in the house until close to 7pm. Scott didn’t believe me when I said that his mom was drinking and constantly made excuses for her erratic behaviors, which at times involved interrupting us constantly while trying to complete our respective work. I also rejoined the clinic I worked for previously, adding over twenty-five hours of work to my week. Under these circumstances, I experienced intense stress.

Meanwhile, it was incredibly important to me to keep myself hitting the weight room. In a way, my bulimia became tangled with my use of the gym as a way to avoid my feelings about the current state of my life. I coped by switching to a program that had me lifting six times a week. I began to add cardio to the end of my already long sessions. If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my anxiety at the time, I would’ve realized that this was the source of my very sudden experience of binging. Exercise became a necessity — I was determined to burn off the 5,000+ calories I consumed once or twice a week. I was falling down the rabbit hole of exercise bulimia, but was not mentally able to comprehend what I was doing to myself.

When I had to exercise less due to work, I began vomiting to purge calories while sporadically hitting the gym. I was getting heavier as my binges became more frequent, even despite bringing the food back up.

Embarrassingly, I tried to maintain the image of someone who was healthy and strong. My instagram was filled with pictures of me at the gym, and plenty of before and after shots that demonstrated my progress from obese or overweight to a “fit” girl. At times, I felt guilty. In a way, I was a fraud, sick on both the left and right – bulimic in one, a young binge eater in the other. Yet the validation was important to me, and in all honestly, important to my eating disorder as well. If people thought I looked good and strong, how bad could I really be?

Sitting against the wall in the gym, people looking over briefly with quizzical expressions as I hung my head between my knees, made me realize that I didn’t need to feel this way. I didn’t want to. I loved powerlifting. And it was only getting harder and more dangerous for me as I fucked with my electrolytes or made myself overly dehydrated, the consequences of my numerous daily purges.